Fool for Her
by TolkienGirl
Summary: Merry Christmas! This is a Sherlolly one-shot inspired that AMAZING Christmas party scene from A Scandal in Belgravia, which is both cringe-worthy and extremely sweet. My take is from Sherlock's POV, and has a touch of humour along with the angst. Read and Review please! As a Christmas present :) (*All rights to their respective owners*)


**A/N: ****_Sherlock_****, all characters and storylines from the show don't belong to me, though I wish ****_he _****did. :) Obviously, I'm a Sherlolly addict. I tend to be quite angsty with them—although if I'm in a cheerful mood I might dabble in some cute fluff. :D Enjoy! And I just LOVE getting reviews, by the way…**

**P.S. I'm American, but I try to be as consistent as I can…thus the use of the word "jumper" instead of sweater. I also happen to like John's "jumper" in this scene. :)**

He hadn't wanted the party.

Parties were loud, dull, and in every way disruptive to the delicate workings of the intellect.

John knew that—or should have known. There was no rightful excuse for his ignorance; Sherlock had expressed on several occasions his utter abhorrence for pointless social interactions.

"It's called having fun, Sherlock," an exasperated John had endeavored to explain. "Try it sometime."

He had not dignified that remark with a reply, supposing his ominous silence to be the ultimate proof of his disinclination for anything so disgusting as holiday festivities.

Yet John—the betrayer—had disregarded the importance of intellect, solitude, and silence, and had invited Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, and his latest girlfriend for a Christmas party.

Her name was Jeanette, and she was a teacher. Sherlock knew this—also, that she was nervous, played piano, was frustrated with her parents over their recent separation, had spent a year in New York City, and was remodeling her apartment. He would, however, go to great pains to pretend not to even remember her name—John (and everyone else) must feel keenly how much of an affront their presence was.

"Sherlock, _come_ off it," John pleaded, pausing to place a bottle of wine on the table. He was wearing a ludicrous knitted jumper, which Sherlock mentally noted to mock later on in the evening.

"Come off of _what_, John? I am not _on_ anything, at present, except the floor of this flat, on which you are also standing-therefore, we are both as likely to come off it as to stay on it, and I don't see you following your own advice, so neither will I." He scraped his bow across his violin, reflecting on the fact that John always made the same expression when he was annoyed. The same little crease appeared between his eyebrows.

_Average minds. So predictable. So little variation in emotion and expression._

He sighed imperceptibly. Idiots, all of them, each in their own way. No two alike, but all idiots.

All coming to his flat tonight.

A small, nagging voice plagued one corner of his mind, reminding him of John's courage, loyalty, and…intelligence. But he sent the voice away with another intentionally jarring violin note, and set his implacable will against the very idea of being lenient or forgiving.

_Christmas party. Here. _

How Mycroft would jeer! Pompously, of course, and therefore not without flaw—Sherlock did not consider pomposity a virtue—but it would still be mockery.

The only bright spot in a sea of gloom was that John had not invited Mycroft.

"Sherlock, I'm not asking much. Just—God's sake, be civil, would you?"

"Am I ever not, John?"

John scoffed. "I'm not going to answer that, because we both know the answer already."

_Grade-school rhetoric. _Sherlock glanced superciliously over his shoulder, placing his violin back in its case. "Don't be evasive, John. It doesn't suit the abilities of an inferior mind."

"Shut up, someone's here!" John's admonitory hiss turned to a cheerful greeting as he welcomed Lestrade in.

They started coming after that—Mrs. Hudson tottered up, wearing an unflattering shade of lipstick (at her age, oughtn't she to know better?) and wishing Christmas cheer; the girlfriend came in and Sherlock insulted her in what he considered to be a rather clever way (shouldn't she be thankful that she wasn't the one with the spots, at least?); and finally, Molly Hooper arrived, looking desperately celebratory in an enormous plaid wrap…which revealed an equally desperate although far less enormous dress.

Sherlock glared at the window and comforted himself by making audible, insulting asides. Lestrade's marriage; John's sister; Molly's sense of humor—all could, and would, be ridiculed.

Yet to his disappointment, the party was _still_ going well. They were all still chatting cheerfully, despite his efforts—and short of hurling a jar of thumbs at someone, he wasn't sure what he could do to put an end to the revelry.

_You can't think of anything? Deplorable. All of this chaos is corroding your mental capabilities like grit in a delicate instrument. _

He had to do something—sneer at _something_, for fear of losing his internal reputation. His mind could be a demanding master.

Quickly, he alighted upon Molly's garish bag of presents as the perfect target. In a second he was rattling on delightedly—oh, it was perfect, the culmination of his irritation professed in an eloquent bout of deduction._ This_ would settle the party.

Her attire, her gift-wrap, her lipstick, her secret "crush" on some hapless fellow—all fell prey to the rapid-fire artillery of his intellect. The room had grown uncomfortably silent. Molly was redfaced and flustered, looking away in distress. John was sending concerned eyebrow signals.

Let him send them. Let him try to plan another holiday party next year.

With one last jab, he opened the small card triumphantly, ready to infallibly support his own masterful observation.

And then—

_Dearest Sherlock_

_Love Molly xxx_

There was a supreme moment of silence, in the room and in his own mind.

He heard John sigh.

_"Miss Hooper has _love_ on her mind." _His own derisive words of a moment before came back to stab in him in the heart he hadn't known he had.

Molly stopped blushing, stopped turning away. Her eyes met his. "You always say such horrible things, every time," she said. He could hear her voice breaking, see the wine glass clenched in her fingers trembling a little. The red liquid sloshed against the sides of the fragile glass. "Always. Always." Something behind her eyes was crumpled and crushed, like a scrap of paper.

He hadn't thought she was capable of being hurt. She was such a silly, blind little mouse of a woman—fawning over his every move, oblivious to his contempt. She was insignificant.

Wasn't she?

Somehow, he found himself unable to tear his eyes from her pale cheeks, crimson-stained lips, and dark, anguished, reproachful eyes.

She wasn't. She wasn't insignificant at all.

The room was impenetrably still. He could see the pained weariness in John's eyes, hear Mrs. Hudson's faint, distressed murmuring. Lestrade had his drink halfway to his mouth, his hand frozen in midair. The boring teacher looked slightly less boring and more horrified.

And Molly—his eyes had found their way back to Molly again. Her face hadn't changed, but there was the faintest wink of tears in the corners of her eyes.

He knew, then, that he had to do something. Say something.

_Apologize._

_What?_ Every filament of his will recoiled at the very concept of it. He would look like a fool.

And then he realized.

He already looked like a fool. He was a fool for hurting her.

But he would be a fool again if it meant erasing the hurt from behind her eyes.

"I am sorry," he said slowly. Forcing the words from his lips hurt almost as much as he had hurt her. "Forgive me."

He stepped closer to her. She didn't fawn, or falter, or tell him that it was alright. She just looked at him, looked with eyes that were full of hopes that had been crushed and pushed down and ignored, full of patient dreams and memories of humiliations and hidden strength.

He had never really looked into her eyes before.

He had never thought that there would be anything to see there, but—

There was.

"Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper," he murmured, and kissed her on one soft, pale cheek.

And her eyes forgave him.


End file.
